The day of the festival arrives with bright skies and crisp winter air. Colorful banners flutter from windows, and garlands of dried flowers and herbs hang across doorways. Laughter echoes through the cobbled streets, the sounds of flutes, drums, and lutes drifting from the central square.

  Stalls line the thoroughfares, vendors shouting cheerfully as they sell roasted meats, honeyed pastries, painted trinkets, and woven charms. Children dash between legs with wooden swords and flower crowns. The scent of spice, smoke, and pine fills the air.

  I push through the crowd, a large crate of medicines in my arms, each step careful as I make my way toward Zaenith’s stall, set apart from the rest, I’m not sure why.

  I place it on her makeshift counter. I was surprised to see this morning that Zaenith dressed for the occasion, her garb slightly festive. Her hair woven with strands of colorful herbs, and a fine green cloak draped over her shoulders, bright against her usual gray.

  "Unpack it," she says briskly. "Line everything up. Make it look presentable."

  I nod and get to work, arranging the jars and vials of medicines, ointments, and tonics. These are the ones I brewed and mixed myself.

  I hope they turned out alright.

  Once I'm done, I take a seat beside Zaenith at the stall. Despite having dressed for it, the festivities don’t seem to have lightened her mood at all.

  She gives a curt nod toward the display. "Ointments are three copper a jar. Tonics go for five. If they ask for painkillers, it’s seven, only the strong ones. And no discounts, I don’t care if they limp."

  I nod, committing the prices to memory.

  She gestures to a box to her right. "Expect to sell many of these. Ginseng tonics to stir the loins. Men always think they'll bed someone in a festival. And the women?"

  She taps the box at her feet. "Wormwood tinctures to purge the womb. They won’t ask directly, but you'll know. Be discreet. Don’t shout it like a fool. They're in that box, marked with green wax."

  I glance at it, then back at her. "Right."

  Zaenith grunts, eyes scanning the crowd with disinterest.

  "I signed up for the tournament," I remind her. "I'll need to head off for it later."

  She nods. "Good. More combat will do you good."

  It hadn’t taken much to convince her, fighting is the one thing Zaenith is always eager to push on me.

  Of course, I'm planning on using the opportunity to slip away and enjoy a bit of the festival. There'll be plenty of time for me between matches.

  Zaenith stands abruptly, brushing off her cloak. "Mind the stall. Don’t let anyone haggle, and keep the idiot boys from stealing, the young ones can't help themselves."

  Before I can ask where she's going, she's already melted into the crowd.

  I lean back and wait. It doesn’t take long. An older man with a crooked back and dirt-stained hands steps up, his face weathered, a deep scar running down one cheek. He squints at the jars.

  “Got anything for joints? Weather’s been murder on my knees.” I glance at the row of vials, then pull one with golden sediment settled at the bottom. "This is a warming salve. Mix of pepperroot and drake oil. Rub it in before you sleep. Should help. Three copper."

  He nods, grunting as he counts the coins into my hand. "Hope it’s worth it."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Next, a young woman with flushed cheeks and nervous eyes steps up, clutching her shawl.

  She looks at me nervously and asks in a hushed voice, "Is Mistress Zaenith here?"

  I shake my head. "No. Just me right now."

  Her eyes dart around, scanning the crowd. Then she leans in close, voice barely audible. "I missed a cycle. I need something... to fix it."

  I nod and reach into the box beneath the counter, pulling a vial with green wax around the neck. "Five copper. Take half now, half tomorrow. Don’t eat beforehand."

  She doesn’t speak, just presses the coins into my palm and slips the bottle into her shawl before disappearing into the crowd.

  A boy no older than ten clambers up to the stall, barefoot and beaming. "Got anything to make my papa stop coughing?"

  I raise an eyebrow. "How long’s he been coughing?"

  "Since winter started. Wakes up choking most nights."

  I think a moment, then hand over a small jar of bitter leaf tonic. "Boil this with water and honey. Morning and night. If he gets worse, bring him to the apothecary."

  The boy nods, clutching the jar like treasure, then bolts off, leaving behind a few copper.

  Hmm, Rose never trusted me with money as a boy.

  They keep coming. A field hand with cracked skin down to the bone, a butcher with inflamed gums, a woman whose child won’t stop screaming. The prices Zaenith set are surprisingly fair, lowered slightly for the festival, no doubt why so many are coming.

  After a time, Zaenith returns, a plate in hand: a browned sausage and two roasted potatoes. Without a word, she drops it in front of me.

  "Eat," she says.

  I don’t argue. I dig in immediately, the salted meat a welcoming comfort.

  The festival’s noise swells, the music and chatter briefly overtaken by the clear, ringing peal of a bell.

  Three times it tolls.

  A hush ripples outward through the crowd, followed by murmurs of recognition. People begin shifting, drifting toward the central square where the fighting pit stands.

  A town crier’s voice rises above the din, loud and clear. “Fighters to the yard! Let all registered combatants present themselves to the marshal by the south gate!”

  The words carry well, practiced and booming. Around me, heads turn. I see a few men in simple leathers break away from the crowd, one tightening the straps of his gauntlets, another adjusting his helm.

  Zaenith waves me away, not glancing up from a salve she’s sorting.

  I swallow the last bite of potato and stand, brushing crumbs from my cloak. The butterflies in my stomach stir.

  Let’s see what mettle I’ve truly got in me.

  The pit is packed, the fighting ground now fully cleared of snow and ringed with rough wooden posts. Rows of hay bales line the perimeter, providing makeshift seating for the swelling crowd. Laughter and anticipation hang thick in the air, but inside the rope boundaries, the mood is sober, focused.

  Dozens of fighters stand along the edge, most in simple gambesons and leather jerkins. Daniel is already there, standing near the center, sword sheathed at his hip, wearing a fine red aketon.

  To the north side, a raised platform has been erected, where Mayor Edwin Stont sits beneath a tasseled canopy, flanked by a few minor dignitaries and Father Alric. He sips wine from a silver cup, eyes scanning the fighters with bored formality.

  I look over the crowd curiously. Luna isn't here, not that I expected her to be.

  A herald steps forward into the ring, clad in a bright blue tabard bearing the town’s crest. He raises a long brass horn and blows a sharp, resonant note. The crowd quiets at once, murmurs dying down to anticipation.

  Another man follows, parchment in hand. His voice is loud and clear, trained for open-air announcements.

  "By decree of Mayor Edwin Stont and with blessing of the Church of blessed Lumina, let the tournament of Ravencroft commence!" The man raises his arm towards the fighters. "Let those who would fight for glory and coin present themselves before the marshal and stand ready to test their mettle! The victor shall earn thirty silver coins and a missive to the forge of Master Halrick, for the crafting of a fine weapon of the winner’s choosing. A fit reward for strength and skill!"

  The marshal, Gandre as it happens, calls names off a list. Fighters step forward one by one, handed colored sashes to mark their matchings, red against blue. The rules are read aloud by the herald: no strikes to the neck or groin, no sharpened blades, yield or incapacitation ends the bout. A physician and two attendants stand nearby with cloth and salves.

  We're all issued the same standard gear, light mail hauberks and simple iron skullcaps, nothing fancy, just enough to stop a blunted blade. The weapons are laid out on a rack: arming swords, axes, and cudgels.

  I take up a cudgel, the weapon most familiar to me. The armor feels odd on my shoulders, heavy and the helmet chafes.

  Gandre raises a hand, voice booming across the yard. "First match, Seven, red sash. Tomas, blue sash. Into the ring."

  My name echoes through the space, met with a few curious murmurs. I take a steady breath and step forward, tightening the strap on my helmet as I move. A young man, Tomas, I assume, joins me, already wearing his gear, an axe resting on his shoulder.

  We face each other in the center of the ring. The crowd quiets. Gandre glances between us.

  "No killing blows. Yield when bested. Strike true."

  He raises a hand. Pauses.

  Then drops it.

  The match begins.